Top Quotes: “America is in the Heart” — Carlos Bulosan

Early Life

“It was the time for the groom to carry his bride to the new house which had been built especially for them in the yard, near the little grass hut where my dad and I lived. He would then find out if his wife were virginal. When I was growing up in the barrio of Mangusmana this primitive custom was still prevalent, although in the town of Binalonan itself, of which our barrio was merely a part, it had never existed. The custom had come down to the peasants in the valleys from the hill people who had intermarried with the villagers and had imposed their own traditions.

The ritual was very simple. But it was also the most dramatic of the series of colorful wedding events. My brother Leon carried his wife across the harvested fields to their new home. We followed, shouting with joy and throwing rice upon them. We stopped in the yard when they entered the house. Then we waited silently, anxious to see the black smoke come out of the house, for it would mean the bride was a virgin. If no smoke showed, we would know that the groom had been deceived, and we’d justify his action if he returned the girl to his people. It was a cruel custom, because the women could no longer marry when they were returned to their parents, and would be looked up with abhorrence and would be ostracized. But it was a fast-dying custom, in line with other backward customs in the Philippines, yielding to the new ways of the younger generation that were shaping out sharply from the growing industrialism.

I don’t think the smoke came out of the house where my brother and his bride were alone, because I remember the crowd milling around my father and rushing into the house. The men brought the girl out and tied her to a guava tree. The angry women spat in her eyes and tore off her clothes, calling her obscene names. When one of the men rushed out of the toolshed with a horsewhip, my father frantically fought his way through the crowd. He’d hardly reached the girl when a man knocked him down, and he was trampled upon by angry feet.

The men must have also knocked down my brother Leon in the house. I saw him staggering toward this bride with blood on his face. He flung himself upon her, covering her bleeding body with his, and the stones and sticks fell upon him mercilessly. Then they tied him to the tree, beside his bridge, and the angry peasants, who’d been his good friends and neighbors a moment ago, began throwing stones at them.

My father crawled on his knees and flung himself upon my brother and his bride.

‘Stop, you devils!’ he shouted helplessly. ‘She’s a good, industrious woman, and my son wants to live with her!’

But the whips began falling upon him. A deep gash was cut across his face and blood came out of his mouth. I could no longer hear what he was saying. The shouting became deafening and the cries of the girl were drowned by that horrible human sound. Then the crowd went away, still angry but spent.

I fumbled in the dark with the butcher knife, cutting the ropes that bound them to the guava tree. It was now far into the night, and the stars were few and far away. The sky was like a field of dying fire trees, vast and remote in the night. The girl flung her bleeding arms about my brother and wept silently. I saw my father’s face searching for an answer in the earth to the unanswerable question in my brother’s eyes.

I’ll never forget how my brother lifted the girl in his arms, as ceremoniously and gently as he’d done that afternoon, and carried her tenderly into their house to begin a new life.”

“In Spanish times education was something that belonged exclusively to the rulers and to some fortunate natives affluent enough to go to Europe. But the poor people, the peasants, were denied even the most basic elementary education. When the free education that the US had introduced spread throughout the islands, every family who had a son pooled its resources and sent him to school.”

“Mindanao was a dangerous land because the native Moros still resented the presence of Christians. They were Mohammedans, although their religion was already fast disintegrating. The faith had been brought by the mercenary Moors from Spain through India during the 11th century. The Moors at that time were at the height of their power and glory, having conquered all the Christian lands in Europe and Asia. They’d ransacked and pillaged all the civilized countries of the world as far as the Euphrates River, following the trail of another insatiable conqueror and vandal before them, Alexander the Great, who was alleged to have reached Mindanao in search of fine horses and gold.”

“When the Spainards discovered the Philippines in the later part of the 14th century, ,war with the Moros began and continued for centuries. It was both a religious and an economic war, for in those early days of global vandalism the sword and the cross went together. But foreign aggression only made the Mohammedan Moros more ardent defenders of their faith and their land, and even the Christian Filipinos became their enemies when they attempted to impose their customs and laws.”

“The land question in Luzon was becoming more acute, and there were rumors of uprisings in the provinces where absentee landlordism was crippling the peasant economy. Rice was the main staple and the peasants couldn’t exist without it, but the rich rice land were owned by men who never saw them. Each year the landlords demanded a larger share, until it became impossible for the peasants to live.”

“‘Allos!’ my mother cried. ‘You are too young to go out in the world.’

I was 13 years old. Maybe my mother was right, although she believed that it was reasonable for me to work like a man in Binalonan, near them. But to live alone in some unknown place? No! She didn’t know that doing the work of a full-grown man had matured me beyond my age, that I’d outgrown my narrow environment.”

American Life

“I heard his feet pattering away from me, and I was comforted. It was enough that Marcelo had come from a familiar town. It was a bond that bound us together in our journey. And I was to discover later this same regional friendship, which developed into tribalism, obstructed all efforts toward Filipino unity in the US.”

“I was pleasantly sunning myself one afternoon when Marcelo rolled over on his stomach and touched me. I turned and saw a young white girl wearing a brief bathing suit walking toward us with a young man. They stopped some distance away from us; then as though the girl’s moral conscience had been provoked, she put her small hand on her mouth and said in a frightened voice:

‘Look at those half-naked savages from the Philippines, Roger! Haven’t they got any idea of decency?’

I was to hear that girl’s voice in many ways afterward in the US. It became no longer her voice, but an angry chorus shouting:

Why don’t they ship those monkeys back where they came from?”

“Suddenly a man came into the room and announced that he was the proprietor:

‘Well, boys,’ he said, looking at our suitcases, ‘where is the rent?’

‘We have no money, sir,’ I said, trying to impress him with my politeness.

‘That is too bad,’ he said quickly, glancing furtively at our suitcases again. ‘That is just too bad.’ He walked outside and went down the hall. He came back with a short, fat Filipino, who looked at us stupidly with his dull, small eyes, and spat his cigar out the window.

‘There they are, Jake,’ said the proprietor.

Jake looked disappointed. ‘They’re too young,’ he said.

‘You can break them in, Jake,’ said the proprietor.

‘They will be sending babies next,’ Jake said.

‘You can break them in, can’t you, Jake?’ the proprietor pleaded. ‘This is not the first time you have broken babies in. You’ve done it in the sugar plantations in Hawaii, Jake!’

‘Hell!’ Jake said, striding across the room to the proprietor. He pulled a fat roll of bills from his pocket and gave $25 to the proprietor. Then he turned to us and said, ‘All right, Pinoys, you are working for me now.Get your heats and follow me.’

We were too frightened to hesitate. When we lifted our suitases the proprietor ordered us not to touch them.

‘I’ll take care of them until you come back from Alaska,’ he said. ‘Good fishing, boys!’

In this way we were sold for $5 each to work in the fish canneries in Alaska, by a Visayan from the island of Leyte to an Ilocano from the province of La Union. Both were old-timers; both were tough. They exploited young immigrants until one of them, the hotel proprietor, was shot dead by an unknown assailant. We were forced to sign a paper which stated that each of us owed the contractor $20 for bedding and another $20 for luxuries. What the luxuries were, I’ve never found out. The contractor turned out to be a tall, heavy-set, dark Filipino, who came to the small hold of the boat barking at us like a dog. He was drunk and saliva was running down his shirt.

‘And get this, you devils!’ he shouted at us. ‘You will never come back alive if you don’t do what I say!’

It was the beginning of my life in America, the beginning of a long flight that carried me down the years, fighting desperately to find peace in some corner of life.”

“I came to know afterward that in many ways it was a crime to be Filipino in California. I came to know that the public streets were not free to my people: we were stopped each time these vigilant patrolmen saw us driving a car. We were suspect each time we were seen with a white woman. And perhaps it was this narrowing of our life into an island, into a filthy segment of American society, that had driven Filipinos like Doro inward, hating everyone and despising all positive urgencies toward freedom.”

“I was talking to a gambler when 2 police detectives darted into the place and shot a little Filipino in the back. The boy fell on his knees, face up, and expired. The players stopped for a moment, agitated, then resumed playing, their faces coloring with fear and revolt. The detectives called an ambulance, dumped the dead Filipino into the street, and left when an intern and his assistant arrived. They left hurriedly, untouched by their act, as though killing were part of their day’s work.

All at once I heard many tongues speaking excitedly. They didn’t know why the Filipino was shot. It seemed that the victim was new to the city. I was bewildered.

‘Why was he shot?’ I asked a man near me.

‘They often shoot Pinoys like that,’ he said. ‘Without provocation. Sometimes when they’ve been drinking and they want to have fun, they come to our district and kick or beat the first Filipino they meet.’

‘Why don’t you complain?’ I asked.

‘Complain? he said. ‘Are you kidding? Why, when we complain it always turns out that we attacked them! And they become more vicious, I’m telling you! That is why once in a while a Pinoy shoots a detective. You’ll see it one of these days.’”

“We turned to the north and came to a hotel near the Hall of Justice building. We took the slow elevator to the fifth floor. My brother knocked on a door and looked at me. There was a hunted look in his face. I heard many voices inside. A patter of feet, then the door opened. The strong smell of whisky brought tears to my eyes. It was so strong it almost choked me. I knew at once that there was a party. I saw 3 American girls in evening gowns and 10 Filipinos. I was amazed at their immaculate suits and shoes.

‘Friends,’ my brother announced, ‘this is my kid brother — Carlos! He has just arrived from the Philippines.’

‘More than 6 months ago,’ I corrected him. ‘I went to Alaska first, then came down to LA. I think I like it here. I will buy a house here someday.’

‘Buy a house?’ a man near me said, his face breaking into a smile. But when he noticed that my brother was looking hard at him, he suddenly changed his tone and offered me a glass. ‘Good, good!’ he said. ‘Buy all the houses you want. And if you need a janitor — ‘ He turned around to hide the cynical twist of his mouth.

Then they rushed to me. All at once several cocktail glasses were offered to me. The girls pulled me to the table, tilting a glass in my mouth. The Filipinos shouted to me to drink.

I looked at my brother, ashamed. ‘I don’t drink,’ I said.

‘Go on — drink!’ a curly-haired boy prodded me. ‘Drink like hell. This is America. We all drink like hell. Go on, boy!’

He was only a boy, but he drank like a man. I watched him empty 3 glasses, one after the other. My brother came to me.

‘This is a wedding party,’ he whispered.

‘Who got married?’ I asked, looking around.

‘I think that one,’ he said, pointing to a woman. ‘That is the man. I think he’s 20 years old.’

‘She’s old enough to be his mother,’ I said.

‘What’s the difference?’ the curly-haired boy said to me. ‘They know what they want, don’t they?’ He winked at me foolishly and emptied another glass.

I gripped the glass in my hand so hard that it nearly broke.

It was past midnight when the party was over. I thought some of the men would go home, bu it was only Leon who announced that he was leaving. The bridal couple started undressing in the other room, and the other men came to the outer room with the 2 girls. The curly-haired boy switched off the lights and the men started grabbing the girls.”

“The sky was overcast and the lights in the streets were out. Newsboys were shouting the morning papers. We walked for hours because it was hard to talk. We had not seen each other for years, and it was difficult to begin. We could only pick up fragments of our lives and handle them fearfully, as though the years had made us afraid to know ourselves. I was suddenly ashamed that I couldn’t express the gentle feeling I had for my brother. Was this brutality changing me, too?

At dawn we walked back to the hotel. What I saw in the room would come back to me again and again. One of the girls was in the bed with two men. The other girl was on the couch with two other men. They were all nude. 6 men were sleeping on the floor and 3 others were sprawled under the bed.

My brother motioned to me to undress, switching off the lights. I found a space near the closet, and I lay down hoping to sleep. My heart was pounding very fast. Leon came into the room with another girl. He cursed the sleeping forms and took the girl to the other room. They went to bed with the married couple.

I wanted to talk to my brother in the dark. But when I put my ear close to his mouth, I knew that he was already asleep. I couldn’t sleep anymore; my mind was wandering. I rolled over on my other side and I tried to remember a prayer I used to recite when I was a little boy in Mangusmana.”

“Alonzo, the student, met a divorcee who sent him to college. But one night, when they were living together (they couldn’t marry in the state), detectives broke into their apartment and took Alonzo to jail.

‘You can’t do this to me,’ he kept saying, ‘I know my rights. I haven’t committed any crime.’

‘Listen to the brown monkey talk,’ said one of the detectives, slapping Alonzo in the face. ‘He thinks he has the right to be educated. Listen to the bastard talk English. He thinks he’s a white man. How do make this white woman stick with you, googoo?’ Another sharp slap across the face, and Alonzo, staggering from the blow, fell on the floor. Blood came out of his mouth, dripping on the threadbare carpet. He rolled away from the detective when he saw that a kick was coming, jumped to his feet and ran outside where two others felled him with blackjacks. He was carried downstairs to a car that took him to jail.

It was the turning point of Alonzo’s life. The divorcee was driven out of town, warned never to see Filipinos again. And Alonzo, when he came out, went back to college with a great determination, majoring in languages and international law.”

“It was now the year of the great hatred: the lives of Filipinos were cheaper than those of dogs. They were forcibly shoved off the streets when they showed resistance. The sentiment against them was accelerated by the marriage of a Filipino and a Caucasian girl in Pasadena. The case was tried in court and many technicalities were brought in with it to degrade the lineage and character of the Filipino people.

Prior to the Roldon vs. The US case, Filipinos were considered Mongolians. Since there is a law which forbids the marriage between Mongolians and Caucasians, those who hated Filipinos wanted them to be included in this discriminatory legislation. Anthropologists and other experts maintained that the Filipinos aren’t Mongolians, but members of the Malayan race. It was then a simple thing for the state legislature to pass a law forbidding marriage between Malayans and Caucasians. This action was followed by neighboring states until, when the war with Japan broke out in 1941, New Mexico was the nearest place to the Pacific Coast where Filipino soldiers could marry Caucasian women.

This was the condition in CA when Jose and I arrived in San Diego. I was still unaware of the vast social implications of the discrimination against Filipinos, and my ignorance had innocently brought me to the attention of white Americans. In SD, where I tried to get a job, I was beaten upon several occasions by restaurant and hotel proprietors. I put the blame on certain Filipinos who had behaved badly in America, who had instigated hate and discontent among their friends and followers. This misconception was generated by a confused personal reaction to dynamic social forces, but my hunger for the truth had inevitably led me to take a historical attitude. I was to understand and interpret this chaos from a collective POV, because it was pervasive and universal.

From SD, Jose and I traveled by freight train to the south. We were told, when we reached the little desert town of Calipatria, that local whites were hunting Filipinos at night with shotguns. A countryman offered to take us in his loading truck to Brawley, but we decided it was too dangerous. We walked to Holtville where we found a Japanese farmer who hired us to pick winter peas.

It was cold at night and when morning came the fog was so thick it was tangible. But it was a safe place and it was far from the surveillance of vigilantes. Then from nearby El Centro, the center of Filipino population in the Imperial Valley, news came that a Filipino labor organizer had been found dead in a ditch.

I wanted to leave Holtville, but Jose insisted that we work through the season. I worked but made myself inconspicuous. At night I slept with a long knife under my pillow. My ears became sensitive to sounds and even my sense of smell was sharpened. I knew when rabbits were mating between the rows of peas. I knew when night birds were feasting in the melon patches.

One day a Filipino came to Holtville with his American wife and their child. It was blazing noon and the child was hungry. The strangers went to a little restaurant and sat down at a table. When they were were refused service, they stayed on, hoping for some consideration. But it was no use. Bewildered, they walked otuside; suddenly the child began to cry with hunger. The Filipino went back to the restaurant and asked if he could buy a bottle of milk for his child.

‘It’s only for my baby,’ he said humbly.

The proprietor came out from behind the counter. ‘For your baby?’ he shouted.

‘Yes, sir,’ said the Filipino.

The proprietor pushed him violently outside. ‘If you say that again in my place, I’ll bash in your head!’ he shouted aloud so that he’d attract attention. ‘You goddamn brown monkeys have your nerve, marrying our women. Now get out of this town!’

‘I love my wife and child,’ said the Filipino desperately.

‘Goddamn you!’ The white man struck the Filipino viciously between the eyes with his fist.

Years of degradation came into the Filipino’s face. All the fears of his life were here — in the white hand against his face. Was there no place where he could escape? Crouching like a leopard, he hurled his whole weight upon the whiteman, knocking him down instantly. He seized a stone the size of his fist and began smashing it into the man’s face. Then the white men in the restaurant seized the small Filipino, beating him unconscious with pieces of wood and with their fists.

He lay inert on the road. When two deputy sheriffs came to take him away, he looked tearfully back at his wife and child.”

“I got off the train in Klamath Falls. I was eating in a small restaurant when 2 policemen entered and grabbed me. It was so sudden and so unexpected that the spoon in my hand went flying across the room. A million things rushed into my mind at once: Were Pete and Myra killed by Poco? Did Drank commit a crime somewhere and implicate me? Had my brother Amado robbed a bank? I didn’t know what to say. I obediently followed my captors to the jailhouse.

I was hiding $2 in my shoes when one of the policemen came into the cell. I knew from experience that money was important and the men in my world hungered and died for it. I watched him stand boldly before him, his strong legs spread wide apart, his hands on his hips, showing the menacing grin.

‘Where did you come from?’ he asked.

I played dumb, pantomiming that I didn’t speak the language.

‘Are you Filipino?’ He was trying another angle.

‘Yes.’

Crack!

It was that quick and simple. His right fist landed on my jaw, felling me instantly. Seeing his shoes approaching, I quickly rolled over on my stomach and jumped to my feet; then treating to a corner of the cell, I put up my hands to cover my face.

‘You goddamn bastard!’

He hit me again.

I fell on the floor. I rolled over, face down, covering my head with my hands. He kicked me twice in rapid succession, rocking my body and plunging me into a dark ocean that drowned me in sleep…Then from far away, I heard voices.

‘Is the son-of-a-bitch dead?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Did you find any money on him?’

‘Only $2 in his shoes.’

‘We could have a round of bourbon on it.’

‘We might be able to bypass another brown monkey in town.’

‘Yeah!’

They left. I heard them laughing outside, their car gliding down the street. I opened my eyes. It was dark! It could not be night. It was only a moment ago that I’d been eating in a restaurant, and it had been bright morning. Slowly rising to a sitting position, I raised my right hand to my forehead. I was aware of the acrid smell of blood, but couldn’t feel anything. I looked at my hand. It was smashed! I rubbed my face with my left hand, feeling the lacerations where the man’s fist had struck. I tore a piece off my shirt and wrapped my hand in it, blowing upon it to ease the pain.

The next morning the policemen dragged me from my cell. Their breaths were strong with whisky. I knew they were through with me. They told me to walk to the border of CA, while they followed me in their car. When I stopped to remove the pebbles from my shoes, they drove the car a little faster so that the bumper kept hitting me. My feet were bleeding when I reached CA soil.

They came out of the car. The policeman who’d terrorized me the previous night struck me sharply across the face, laughing when he saw the blood coming out of my nose.

‘That will teach you not to come to this town again,’ he shouted.

I fell on my knees. I heard them laughing. There was a sadistic note in their voices. Was it possible that these men enjoyed cruelty? The brutality in the gambling houses was over money; it was over women among Filipinos. But the brutality of these policemen — what was it?

I started walking across a wide forest land toward the coast highway, some 200 miles away. It seemed an endless journey. After 2 days and 3 nights, I came to a railroad town and caught a freight train for SF.”

“I was transferred to the bakery department of the Opal Cafe, at $14/week, an increase of $4 from my former salary. Men of influence came now and then to the back room where I was scrubbing pans, and cast malicious glances at me. Once a local businessman came into the back room with a bottle of whisky. He sarcastically said to me:

‘Mr. Opal tells me that you’re reading books. Is it true?’

‘Yes, sir.’ But realizing that my tone had a challenging tone in it, I said immediately: ‘Well, sir, there’s nothing else to do after working hours. I hate to go to the Mexican quarters because, as you know, gambling and prostitution are going on there all the time. And I’m a little tired of the phonograph in my room, playing the same records over and over. I find escape in books, and also discovery of a world I’d not known before…’

I had not been looking at him, because my words came in a rush.

‘Well, you bring it upon yourself,’ he said tonelessly. ‘I mean prostitution and gambling.’

‘I don’t know what you really mean,’ I said. ‘But the gambling and the prostitution are operated by three of this town’s most respectable citizens. As a matter of fact, I can tell you their names — ‘

‘Watch your yellow tongue, googoo!’ he shouted at me, hurling the half-filled bottle in his hands.

I ducked too late, and the bottle hit the back of my head. I fell on the floor on all fours. When I saw him rushing at me with an empty pan, I jumped to my feet and grabbed a butcher knife which was lying on a table and met him. Slowly he backed away, escaped through the door to the dining room, and came back with the manager.

‘What is this?’ Mr. Opal asked.

‘This barbarian wants to murder me,’ the man said.

Something snapped inside of me, and my whole vision darkened. I lunged at the man with the knife in my hand, wanting to murder him. He ran behind Mr. Opal, shouting to the waitresses in the dining room to call for the police.

‘You’re fired!’ he shouted, crossing his hands in front of his face, as though he could ward me off with them.

You are fired! How many times did I hear those words? Why did they pursue me down the years, across oceans and continents? A nameless anger filled me, and before I knew it I was screaming:

‘I’ll kill you, you white men!’

There was a crash, as though lightning had struck the building. Then silence. I looked up. I was hiding in the alley where I had hidden my box of sandwiches many times before. I groped my way in the dark, feeling the warm blood on my face.”

“I had struck at the white world, at least; and I felt free. Was my complete freedom to be fought for violently? Was murder necessary? And hate! God forbid! My distrust of white men grew, and drove me blindly into the midst of my own people; together we hid cynically behind our mounting fears, hating the broad white universe at our door. A movement of the hand, and it was there — yet it could not be touched, could not be attained ever. I tried to find a justification for my sudden rebellion — why was it so sudden, and black, and hateful. Was it possible that, coming to America with certain illusions of equality, I had slowly succumbed to the hypnotic effects of racial fear?”

“My father’s death was the turning point of my life. I had tried to keep my faith in America, but now I could no longer. It was broken, trampled upon, driving me out into the dark nights with a gun in my hand. In the senseless days, in the tragic hours, I held tightly to the gun and stared at the world, hating it with all my power. And hating made me lonely, lonely for love, love that could resuscitate beauty and goodness. For it was life I aspired for, a life of goodness and beauty.

But I found only violence and hate, living in a corrupt corner of America. I found it in a small Filipino who appeared in town from nowhere and, strangely enough, called himself Max Smith. Max pretended to be bold and fearless, but his bravado was only a shield to protect himself, to keep the secret of his cowardice.

‘Have you a gun?’ Max asked me one night.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Give it to me,’ he said.

‘Go to hell!’ I told him.

‘Give it to me!’ He was trembling, not with anger but excitement.

I gave him the gun.

‘Follow me,’ Max said, ducking into an alley.

I followed him down the block. He stopped near a small truck and told me to hide behind a tree. A Japanese appeared in the alley, walking toward the truck as though he was dancing. He wobbled a little and his breath was heavy with liquor. Max leaped from the darkness and hit him on the head with the butt of the gun, felling him instantly. Waving the gun at me, Max began searching the victim’s pockets. I jumped from behind the tree and bent over the Japanese, my legs shaking. Max jumped to his feet, motioned to me to follow him, and ran up the alley toward the town jail.

Robbery? It was something I’d never done before — but it was a desperate year. Anything could happen, even in Lompoc. Max procured another gun somewhere, and I got back mine. I roamed the streets at night, following Max, banging at the doors of prostitutes when he wanted whisky. Then a tremendous idea came to my mind, driving me like a marijuana addict when it seized my imagination.

‘What is it?’ Max asked.

‘The bank,’ I whispered. ‘Let’s rob the bank.’

He seized my hand, thought deeply for a moment. ‘It could be done!’

‘Yes!’ I said. ‘Now here’s what we’ll do. Remember there’s only 1 night watchman We’ll stop him in the street and force him to go to the house of the president of the bank. Then we’ll take them to the bank and — presto! — the large safe where all the bills are kept.’ I stopped to catch my breath, so great was the idea, so breathtaking and courageous! ‘Then, Max, we’ll drive them to the mountain. We’ll tie them to the car, set fire to the car, and plunge it into the deep ravine below the highway. There will be no trace of them! And perhaps the fire will turn the mountain and this town into ashes! Let’s do it tonight!’

Max held my hand tightly, looking from side to side. ‘We’ll make it our last act in this damned town!’

It was settled. We’d rob the bank and run away. I was standing in front of the Chinese gambling house when Max went inside and came out running, ducking into the dark alley with a bag of money. The excited proprietor came out with a gun, followed by other Chinese, chattering in singsong voices. I pointed in the other direction when they asked where Max went, cursing them in my dialect so that the Filipino gamblers would understand, and go away.

I knew where Max was hiding: the local jail. It was the safest place to hide because it was always empty, and the sheriff never bothered to investigate it. When the streets were clear, I went to the jailhouse. Max was waiting with my share of the loot.

‘Let’s go to San Luis Obispo and have fun,’ he said. ‘We’ll come back tomorrow for the bnak. The grand finale!’

‘OK, Max,’ I said.

‘Wait for me at the bus station,’ he said.

‘Right.’ I went to the station and bought our tickets. Then Max came back with a bottle of whisky, his hand on the pocket where the gun was hidden. He jumped into the bus and took his seat beside me.

He began to get drunk. I watched him close his eyes and go sound asleep. I looked out the window. Night was gathering fast. The sky was dark and boundless.”

“I thought I’d lost interest in everything. But here I was again, working industriously as before, hoping to survive another winter. It was a planless life, hopeless, and without direction. I was merely living from day to day: yesterday seemed long ago and tomorrow was too far away. It was today that I lived for aimlessly, this hour — this moment. It gave me an acute sense of time that has remained with me.”

“Pascual was a socialist. He was a lawyer by profession, but his talent had found a fuller expression in writing. He was small and semi-paralytic, but versatile and fiery. He had brought his American wife from Chicago to CA — a woman almost twice as tall as he. Together they had started a newspaper in Stockton, appealed to the farm workers, prospered, until a rival newspaper drove them to the Santa Maria Valley. Then they’d gone to San Luis Obispo where, at that time, the Filipino agricultural workers were voiceless and treated like peons. The workers were beginning to ask for unity, but had been barred from established unions. The Filipino workers started an independent union, and Jose was one of its organizers. I was happy to work with him, too. And happy also to know that in this feudalistic town the social awakening of Filipinos in CA was taking shape.”

“America is not merely a land or an institution. America is in the hearts of men that died for freedom; it’s also in the eyes of men that are building a new world. America is a prophecy of a new society of men: of a system that knows no sorrow or strife or suffering. America is a warning to those who would try to falsify the ideals of freemen.

America is also the nameless foreigner, the homeless refugee, the hungry boy begging for a job and the black body dangling on a tree. America is the illiterate immigrant who’s ashamed that the world of books and intellectual opportunities is closed to him. We’re all that nameless foreigner, that homeless refugee, that hungry boy, that illiterate immigrant and that lynched black body. All of us, from the first Adams to the last Filipino, native born or alien, educated or illiterate — we are America!

The old world is dying, but a new world is being born. It generates inspiration from the chaos that beats upon us all. The false grandeur and security, the unfulfilled promises and illusory power, the number of the dead and those about to die, will change the forces of our courage and determination. The old world will die so that the new world will be born with less sacrifice and agony on the living…”

“The membership of the Filipino Workers’ Association was tremendous, considering the myriad difficulties it met in the campaign to spread throughout CA’s agricultural areas. The vigilant Filipino workers —their whole-hearted support of the trade union agreement, their hatred of low wages and other labor discriminations — were the direct causes that instigated the persecutions against them, sporadic at first and then concerted, but destructive to the nation’s welfare.

In Salinas, for instance, the general HQ was burned down after a successful strike of lettuce workers, and the president of the association was thrown in jail. Upon his release, he moved to Guadalupe, in the south, and campaigned for the purchase of a new building. Always alert, the Filipino agricultural workers throughout the valley rallied behind the proposal, and after a few months a new national office was established. Again, striking for better wages, the Filipino lettuce cutters and packers succeeded, but lost the building and their right to build another in Guadalupe.”

“The companies had drastically cut the wage scale: the year before it had been 30 cents an hour, but now it had been reduced to 20 cents. The Filipino workers were struck, but the companies imported Mexican laborers.

‘There should be a law against the importation of labor,’ I said. ‘It should be included in the interstate laws.’

‘The time will come,’ Jose said.

‘Without it, the workers will always be at the mercy of the employers.’

‘You’re absolutely right, Carl,’ Jose said. ‘But we have a good president in DC, so we will probably win some of our demands — if we use enough pressure.’

I wasn’t satisfied, but there was some hope. I went to the Mexican district and gathered together some of the Mexicans who’d quit the fields that day. Jose, who spoke fluent Spanish, came and explained to them the importance of the strike. They were enthusiastic. A runner was sent to the fields to stop the Mexicans who were still working, and he came back to tell us that only 50 remained.

But we wanted an all-out strike, although we doubted that it would be possible. That night, when Jose and I were in the back room of a restaurant, preparing a leaflet to be circulated, 5 white men came suddenly into the room. I started to run to the door, but it was too late. 2 big men, 1 wearing dark glasses, carried off Jose. The other man suddenly turned around and shot out the light bulbs.

I was kicked into the back seat of a big car. Jose was in the front seat, between the driver and the man with dark glasses. When the car started to move, I looked down and saw Millar bleeding on the floor. He looked up at me with frightened eyes, pleading, wanting to tell me that he had nothing to do with our arrest. I turned the other way, aching to hit him in the face.

I looked through the window, hoping to find some escape. I was sure that if the car turned a corner, I could jump out. If I succeeded in jumping out — could I escape their guns? My heart almost stopped beating. It was better to die trying to escape than to wait for death.”

“We entered the woods and in 5 minutes the car stopped. One of the men in front jumped out and came to our door.

‘YOu have the rope, Jake?’

“Yeah!’

The man on my right got out and pulled me violently after him, hitting me on the jaw. I fell on my knees but got up at once, trembling with rage. If only I had a gun! Or a knife! I could cut these bastards into little pieces! Blood came out of my mouth. I raised my hand to wipe it off, but my attacker hit me again. I staggered, fell on my face, and rolled on the grass.

‘Up! Goddamn you! Up!’

Painfully I crawled to my feet, knelt on the grass, and got up slowly. I saw them kicking Millar in the grass. When they were through with him, they tore off Jose’s clothes and tied him to a tree. One of them went to the car and came back with a can of tar and a sack of feathers. The man with the dark glasses ripped the sack open and white feathers fell out and sailed in the thin light that filtered between the trees.

Then I saw them pouring the tar on Jose’s body. One of them lit a match and burned the delicate hair between his legs.

‘Jesus, he’s a well-hung son-of-a-bitch!’

‘Yeah!’

‘No wonder whores stick to them!’

‘The other monkey ain’t so hot!’

They looked in my direction. The man with the dark glasses started beating Millar. Then he came to me and kicked my left knee so violently that I fell on the grass, blinded with pain. Hardening my body, I wished I were strong enough to reach him. He spat in my face and left.

Another man, Jake, tied me to a tree. Then he started beating me with his fists. Why were these men so brutal, so sadistic? A tooth fell out of my mouth, and blood trickled down my shirt. The man called Lester grabbed my testicles with his left hand and smashed them with his right fist. The pain was so swift and searing that it was as if there was no pain at all. There was only a stabbing heat that leaped into my head and stayed there for a moment.

‘Shall we burn this yellow body?’

‘He’s gone.’

‘I’d like a souvenir.’

‘Scalp him!’

‘What about the other bastard?’

‘He’s gone, too.’

They left me. One of them went to the car and took out a bottle of whisky. They started drinking, passing the bottle from hand to hand. Once in a while, when a bottle was emptied, one of them would come over and beat me. When they were drunk enough, I feared that they would burn Jose. Millar crawled painfully over to where I was lying.

‘Knife in my left shoe,’ he whispered.

‘Quiet.’ I rolled over and reached for the knife. Now I could cut the ropes that tied my legs. My hands were free! Then I was ready to run! I handed the knife back and whispered to Millar to roll away. I crawled in the grass slowly; when I reached the edge of the woods, I got up and tried to run. But I had almost no use of my left leg, so that most of the time I hopped through the beet fields like a kangaroo.

The night was clear and quiet. I was afraid they would see me. I heard their voices on the wind. Once a flashlight beamed from the edge of the woods. I lay flat on my stomach and watched it disappear among the trees. Then I got up and staggered toward San Jose.”

“‘Something big will break soon,’ he said. ‘The Japanese contractors have hired some thugs and they’re running around with guns.’

‘Who do you think is the victim?’ I asked.

‘It’s a fellow named Dagohoy. He started the union in the fish canneries, that is, he’s the first president. Now the Japanese contractors, and perhaps the Filipinos also, are after him.’

‘Is it a conspiracy of the Japanese contractors?’

‘Well, in a way. Actually, however, the friction arose because a powerful Japanese contractor feared he would be deprived of his income when the cannery workers were organized. He was making a fortune from his double-dealings with the companies and with the workers. But when a progressive union was born…’

I suddenly discovered that I was sitting in the same corner where I’d sat years before. The place was unchanged. There was even my name and the date of my arrival in the US where I’d carved it on the table. I kept remembering the shooting in the street outside, and the policemen spreading out to catch the crazed Filipino gambler, trapping him in the basement of a hotel. Then Marcelo came to my mind also, and the tall blonde who’d screamed when the lights had gone out in the dance hall. Wherever I went memories crowded my mind, and sometimes my heart was heavy. But I could run away or forget. I was pursued by my own life.

Then something happened so swiftly that I could scarcely believe it. Dagohoy and two other Filipinos, also officers of the newly established cannery workers’ union, came into the restaurant while we were leaving. Conrado and I were talking outside when we heard shooting inside; then suddenly people started running into the restaurant.

We followed them. Dagohoy was profusely bleeding from bullet wounds, crumbling over one of his dead comrades. The other Filipino was sagging on his knees. They had no chance to defend themselves against their assailants.

All of the died. It was believed that a Japanese labor contractor in the fish canneries in Alaska had hired assassins to eliminate the union leaders.

I knew — now. This violence had a broad social meaning; the one I’d known earlier was a blind rebellion. It was perpetrated by men who had no place in the scheme of life. I felt a deep responsibility for Dagohoy’s death. But I left Seattle immediately when he was buried. I went to SF where a meeting of Filipino trade unionists was scheduled.”

“Then I knew surely that I’d become a new ma. I could fight the world now with my mind, not merely with my hands. My weapon couldn’t be taken away from me anymore. I’d had an even chance to survive the brutalities around me. But I was beginning to cough, and I couldn’t sleep at night. I was sick: the years of hunger had found me at last.

I was reading some new poems to Dora when I began to cough violently and couldn’t stop. I rushed to the bathroom and bent over the washbowl, coughing out blood and bringing tears to my eyes. Dora came and held my head, rubbing my throat and forehead. When Macario arrived he called a doctor.

‘I’m afraid it’s TB,’ he said. ‘Advanced stage. I’m sorry.’

There was great shock in Macario’s face. He knew what it meant then: that I, too, would have to wait for slow death.”

“Macario and I boarded a streetcar and went to the Vermont Ave district. What we encountered almost broke my heart. We saw a nice little apartment near Commonwealth Ave and when we approached the landlady took away the ‘For Rent’ sign. She went inside the house and peered furtively through a window. When sure that we wouldn’t go ba,ck, she went out to the yard again and put up the sign.

The next woman was more discreet. She stood by the sign as we approached.

‘This house is not for rent,’ she said awkwardly. ‘The sign is nailed to the wall and it’s hard to pull out. Maybe you can find one next block.’

But the next woman faced the issue squarely. She said: ‘We don’t take Filipinos!’”

“I gave up looking for a better place to live. The only section where we were allowed to stay was notorious for criminals, pimps, gamblers, and prostitutes. We couldn’t find a place even in Boyle Heights, the Jewish section, nor in the Mexican district.”

“From the gambling houses I went to the whorehouses, hoping to find someone I knew. There were no other places where Filipinos could go. I sat in the living room and watched lonely Filipinos paw at the semi-nude girls. I felt angry and lost. Where in this wide country could I go? I felt the way other Filipinos felt. I rushed out and cursed the cold night.

I discovered that 3 Filipino farm labor contractors controlled the grape industry. Nearly 3,000 Filipino workers depended on them. They lived in crowded bunkhouses operated by these men. It was exploitation everywhere, even among ourselves.”

“We were classified as aliens in the National Selective Service Act. Our fight to become naturalized American citizens some years before, which had been opposed by the officials of the Philippine government in DC, now became important and significant.”

“When Binalonan was crushed by a special tank detachment that rushed from Tayug toward Manila, I went to the nearest recruiting office. As I stood in the line waiting for my turn, I thought of a one-legged American Revolutionary patriot of whom I’d read. But Filipinos weren’t being accepted. I ran to Jose’s room and told him to contact the remnants of the delegates.

The meeting was successful; a resolution was sent to DC asking for the inclusion of Filipinos in the armed forces of the US. Copies of the resolutions were sent to all of the Filipino orgs asking for endorsement; members of the delegation returned to their communities and campaigned. For once we were all working together; even those who had opposed our fight for citizenship were now wholeheartedly co-operating.

I was waiting for this very moment; it was a signal of triumph. But it took a war and a great calamity in our country to bring us together. President Roosevelt signed a special proclamation giving Filipinos the right to join the armed forces. Filipino regiments were formed in the US.”